I think my dog Moses just had his first experience chewing tobacco.

I was trying to put together thoughts for a lecture I’m giving on Harry Potter in a couple of days at the Barrett Honors College at Arizona State University, and I decided to go outside, smoke a cigar (Oliva Serie V), and hope to catch a few earlier Leonid meteors from the limited view I have on the front porch of my house here in the city. No such luck with meteors, but several ideas for Friday’s talk came to mind.

Moses was sitting with me on the porch, and about halfway through my cigar, I heard him chewing on something. It was dark, but I’m pretty sure it was the end of the cigar that I’d snipped off.

It’s been almost a decade since the last time I waited up for meteors. I’m thinking about what would have happened if a soothsayer had approached me at that time and said, “A decade from now, you’ll be smoking a cigar and watching this same meteor shower from the front porch of your city street.” I’d have shouted “False prophet!” I’m sure.

Here’s the deceptive thing about the Fallen human condition. I’m no longer the legalist I was then. But the pride that serves as a foundation for legalism doesn’t go away when the pharisaical rules are stripped away. Instead, I can be proud that I’m smoking and drinking and cussing, and thanking God I’m not like those Pharisees, who think they’ll be accepted for their rule keeping. And so, paradoxically, I’m being just like the Pharisee in my quest not to be like the Pharisee.

What was Jeremiah saying about the deceitfulness of the heart?

Moses – the OT one, not my dog – is an interesting character. A decade ago, under that meteor shower in my parents’ backyard, if you’d asked me about Moses, I’d have told you all about how he’s an example of what might happen if you sin. Well sure, he’s that. He got all the way to the Promised Land, and then botched it with anger and disobedience. The funny thing about the New Testament, though, is that when it retells the story of Moses, it doesn’t mention that incident. It seems like that’s a pretty defining incident in Moses’ life, but that’s not how the NT talks about Moses.

Grace is a pretty radical thing, and it tears down our pride, whether that pride is a foundation for our moralism or our celebration of liberty from legalism. At the end of Moses’ life, despite all the lessons he’d learned, he screwed up, and he’s accepted and loved. At the end of my life, having traded legalism most likely for other, more subtle forms of prideful behavior, I’ll probably screw up like Moses did. I’ll be accepted, too. That, and only that, is the antidote for pride and the prescription for humility.

Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Just don’t be prideful about it. We need grace every bit as much as the Pharisee.

If your theology causes you to think you’ve got it all wrapped up and well-understood, it’s bad theology.  Theology should produce wonder.  Not that theology should be hard to understand, abstract, unclear, or embrace a false humility that claims we can’t possibly know anything.  Theology is as clear and easy to understand as sheep, water, bread, fig trees, and vineyards.

And it produces wonder.

The fact that we don’t think these things are filled with wonder demonstrates just how far we have gotten off the path of the truth. G.K. Chesterton wrote,

Just as we all like love tales because there is an instinct of sex, we all like astonishing tales because they touch the nerve of the ancient instinct of astonishment. This is proved by the fact that when we are very young children we do not need fairy tales: we only need tales. Mere life is interesting enough. A child of seven is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door and saw a dragon. But a child of three is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door. Boys like romantic tales; but babies like realistic tales — because they find them romantic. In fact, a baby is about the only person, I should think, to whom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him. This proves that even nursery tales only echo an almost pre-natal leap of interest and amazement. (Orthodoxy, Chapter IV)

True, when we grow old we are to “put away childish things,” but sinners have a tendency to mis-understand what is childish and what is not.  Paradoxically, we fallen people are described well in Rich Mullin’s song, “Growing Young” – “We are children no more, we have sinned and grown old.”

Or, as Chesterton wrote,

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

We grow old, lose our wonder, and become theologians who have it all figured out.

This is one of the many concepts that draws me to the importance of rootedness in place; and, conversely, rootedness in place teaches me these concepts.  Fighting weeds while trying to restore a backyard that’s suffered 15 years of neglect puts me in a place and makes me have to do one of two things: get bitter that I don’t have more time for sitting in front of a computer debating theology with people dumber than me, or find the wonder in creation, consider the tragedy of the fall, and find even greater wonder in redemption.

Most people are bored with the monotony of one place, and we’ve become very transient people.  I’ve written about this before.  I think that boredom is a weakness which plagues us, and I’m fighting hard against it.  I wrote recently at The Rabbit Room,

Lately, I’ve been trying to gather the strength to “do it again” as many times as Sophia requests it, and I’ve been trying to summon the wisdom to find joy in the repetition.

It is much more often foolishness, not wisdom, that makes people want to move away from family and community for ideas of finding a “better life.”  We’re bored with the monotony.  We’re thinking we’re better than this place.  We’re weak. We’ve sinned and grown old.

Theology and place – they’re interconnected and full of wonder.

As I write this, I’m drinking a Lake Placid Ubu Ale.  It’s an English strong ale “named for a legendary chocolate lab” (I’d give it a B+ by the way; you local Rochesterians can buy it at Wegmans).  You probably remember the TV production company.  “Sit, Ubu, sit.  Good dog.”

Next to me lies a black lab.  Actually, German Shepherd/Lab, but mostly German Shepherd.  But still lab.  Which brings me back to Ubu Ale, which is really good.

Which brings me back to the original point of this post, which was to write about how I can’t write about the stuff I was going to write.

Because the dog ate my blog.  Not the legendary chocolate lab.  The Lab/Shepherd mutt lying by my bed.

Earlier today, I was outside with Sophia (my daughter), Kaylynn (her friend), and Moses (the dog), reading Eugene Peterson’s fantastic book, Christ Plays in 10,000 Places.  It’s a rich book, and every time I sit down to take in a few pages, I’m spurred on towards lots of really great thoughts I never would have had otherwise.  I recently decided to start carrying my Moleskine journal around with me again, especially when I’m reading, because great thoughts stay with me for approxiately 11 seconds before I’m thinking about chicken wings or the Sabres’ disappointing season.  Not that chicken wings aren’t a great thought. The Sabres’ season, however, is not a great thought.  But chicken wings are.

And so is Eugene Peterson’s writing.  So I jotted down some notes while I was reading, and even wrote out an entire paragraph which I planned to expand in a blog post this evening.  Then I left the book and journal in the chair outside.

With the dog.

After dinner, Tricia discovered the disaster.  My journal was eaten.  Peterson’s book must not have tasted very good, because it was thankfully left in tact.  Lord knows what would have happened had it been this Eugene Peterson book. (Do take the time to click that link, and notice also the quoted line just underneath the title.)

I tried tonight to re-write that paragraph from memory, but it came out all clunky and unclear.  The dog is sleeping well on a full stomach of Moleskine journal, and I’m hoping that after eating my blogging plans, he’ll at least spend a full night’s rest without throwing them up.

Two days ago, I took the IBHRE Certification Exam for Competency in Cardiac Electrophysiology for the Allied Professional.  I know.  You’re already asleep.

It’s a required test for my current day job: Lead Clinical Technologist at the University of Rochester Medical Center Electrophysiology Lab.

Wake up.

The exam was evil.  I’ve always been a really good test taker.  I’m the kind of person who walks out of an exam saying, “I knew I blew a few questions and guessed on others, and I’m mad because I’ll probably be lucky to get a B.”  And then I get an A.  People hate test-takers like me.  I hate test-takers like me.  If you’re a Harry Potter fan – this is the only imaginable area in which I’m anything at all like Hermione Granger.  Only I don’t study and still get the A.

Except for this exam, for which I studied for almost 6 months.  I’ve never, in all my years of taking tests, walked out of an exam saying, “I think I failed that.”  Never.  Until two days ago.

Examinations are really quite evil.  They hardly test knowledge – especially multiple choice.  This was a 5-hour exam comprised of 200 multiple choice questions.  I’d rather have sat down on Wednesday with one question for 5 hours: “Tell me everything you know about electrophysiology.”  Then someone could grade what I actually know.  Two hundred intentionally tricky multiple choice questions with ECGs and EGMs that were difficult to read on test-taking software that belongs in 1987 covering an impossibly broad area of knowledge is not a good way to find out what I really know.

I’ve just finished my second Master’s degree.  Neither Master’s degree that I hold tested knowledge with written examinations.  Papers and portfolios were the methods of evaluation for both of those degrees, and I learned more from both of them thanalmost anything in undergrad.  Despite being a good test-taker, I’ve come to disbelieve in the value of these sorts of exams.

I could complain about Wednesday’s test – and did so in the post-test survey – for a long time.  But instead, I’ll make a loose analogy to life to attempt to put some actual meaning into this post.  An exam like the one I just took is in many ways like the unpredictability of evil.  (No really … wait for it.)  You can make all the right preparations in life and still run into a completely unexpected tragedy or turn of events that destroys 6 months – or 6 decades – of preparation.

So there. I’ve proved it. Exams are evil.

And I’m all signed up for the IBHRE Certification Exam for Compentency in Cardiac Rhythm Device Therapy for the Allied Professional in September.  You can stay asleep now.

Because I haven’t directly plugged it here yet:

You can pre-order my book, Harry Potter & Imagination: The Way Between Two Worlds!

Click here for description and table of contents.

Click here for a short podcast on the book.

I spoke at another Harry Potter conference this past weekend, and here are some photos.

When I was 4 years old, I was in the hospital for several days with pneumonia, and it took something like 19 tries to get an IV in me. I would wake up in the middle of the night crying, “No more needles!” No surprise, that led to an irrational fear of needles.

Which led to an irrational fear of bees. As far as I’m concerned, bees are just mean little critters with needles.

Which makes this my worst nightmare.

Washington Irving embedded a comical criticism of the way people in modern society uproot in his classic story The Legend of Sleepy Hollow:

There is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for, they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon.

I submit than when conservatism becomes primarily about a certain ideology and not about unique, longstanding, commitment to a location and its traditions and well-being, it ceases to be conservative and has already passed on into liberalism. There is no metanarrative of conservatism; there are only local expressions.

Stay put, and have a chat with the ghost of great-great grandpa.

(Added: Which is not to say, of course, that all conservatives who move are automatic liberals.  I’m talking about the Limbaugh-trajectory of conservative thought in general which has abandoned family, community, and tradition in favor of anything that makes money or looks like the so-called “American Dream.”)

Just a few random life updates:

• City living is fun. The suburbs were boring. Life’s a lot more interesting with drug houses nearby.  I’ve gone from the Shire (Warsaw) to Mordor (Rochester), and like Frodo, I’m not sure the Shire would ever be a good fit for me again.
• Sierra Nevada just put out an Anniversary Ale. Get it. It’s specifically a fall seasonal, so I don’t know how long a fall seasonal anniversary ale will be around. You don’t want to miss it. Here in Rochester, I found it right at Wegman’s (and there’s always Beers of the World, of course).
• I tried the Blue Moon Harvest Moon Pumpkin Ale, but after three bottles, I couldn’t get into it, so I gave it to Chris.
• Had my first Spaten Octoberfest the other night. Got the very first beer off a brand new keg, and it rivals Sam Adam’s, though I still give Sam the edge, I think.
• The book is…erm…on hold, sort of. This house is taking up all my time. Deconversion and getting an inspector to approve this place is going to be quite the job!
• NHL hockey has begun! Sabres open their season with a home and home with the Islanders this weekend. Go Sabres!
• I haven’t preached in a very. long. time. I wonder if my last sermons at every place I most recently preached just totally bombed. I used to get asked to preach like crazy. Did I preach a few stinkers? Did I get really ugly? Is it because I’m getting published on Harry Potter? As busy as I am, I’m extra restless without preaching on a semi-regular basis. I miss the days of weekly sermon prep.

On a semi-cold, rainy afternoon, Sophia is fast asleep for her nap, and I’m on the couch with a Sam Adams Octoberfest and a brand new copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s story, “Smith of Wootten Major.”

This is what an afternoon should be, and I can’t remember the last time I had one like this.